


fuck that ill think of a title later

by kiyotakatanaka



Category: Gods Will Be Watching
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2625032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyotakatanaka/pseuds/kiyotakatanaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i wrote this shit on the metro and im still trying to find out how ao3 works give me a second</p><p>this was really self indulgent too</p>
            </blockquote>





	fuck that ill think of a title later

A metallic taste fills his mouth mere moments after a tooth is torn from his mouth, tears pouring from his eyes.

He's only a child.

He didn't deserve this.

He didn't do anything wrong, and yet, every day it was the same.

He was never smacked, no.

He had his teeth torn out. He had cigarettes stubbed out against the soft flesh of his neck. He had an old family heirloom of a gun, always containing one bullet in any one of the seven chambers, pressed up against his head and the trigger pulled once, twice, three times, until there was a knocking at the door. That knocking was his saviour, what he looked forward to.

It meant that _he_ would leave.

His father never did bind his arms very well behind the chair, so it was never a surprise when he was able to escape and hide. Somewhere. Anywhere. As long as he was never able to be found.

\--

"You may be asking yourself, how does one become a torturer?"

He lifts his lighter up to the end of the cigarette in his mouth, and, with the elegance of a master, cups his hand around the top of his cigarette and flicks the lighter open, producing a flame and lighting the end.

"And I don't _like_ that question."

He mutters with a slight tone of annoyance in his voice, before closing and pocketing the lighter.

"It implies that being a torturer is a  _bad_ thing!"

He chuckles, before turning his body to face the collection of torture instruments set up on the wall, humming softly as he looks over them all. He glances up at the axe for a moment, and a grin forms on his face.

He can't wait to use the axe. Really, he can't.

Finally deciding on the pliers, he grabs them off of the wall, turning on his heels and facing the three others that were over on the other side of the room.

"You know, I descend from a proud line of torturers."

He pauses for a moment, realizing what he just said, before he changes the subject.

"You know, torture is an  _art._ "

\--

His father was certainly less vocal than him. He never spoke while he showed his vast knowledge of torture to his son by demonstrating it to him.

... On him.

Talking lulls them into a false sense of security, providing an almost...  _friendly_ atmosphere. It takes off the edge of the entire situation, makes them forget--

"Stop crying, you're not a baby."

Ah, yes. This again.

If his father were to say anything, it would always be the same thing, and always at the same time.

"You're not a dog, quit whining."

... As well as that.

The former was always one that he had been used to hearing. You couldn't blame him, though. Not every child has a torturer that practices on them day in day out, let alone their own father being said torturer.

The latter, though.

The latter had always made him burst into tears.

It was said only when that gun was what he saw. The time to leave it up to fate.

He whimpered. Gently, but the sign of weakness and fear was still there and  _very_ clear.

\--

"Aaaaand... Done!"

He grins, looking down at the now bloodied  _job_ in the chair that he had been trying to get information from for the past hour, his pocket containing more teeth than it had if one had checked an hour ago. He doesn't know what he'll do with these teeth. Maybe make a necklace? He certainly has enough teeth to do that. Or, you know, he'll just add them to his collection, as he always did. He pulls the rag from out of his front pocket, wiping his hands off and laughing happily, as if this whole thing had been a joke.

"Congratulations on surviving yet another day, boys!"

If only he had been told that as a child.

If only.


End file.
